Cravings
by daggers.silver
Summary: The odor is potent and fresh, warm, but he's used to the smell of blood and so remains his carefully crafted mask of indifference. It's only when he catches a whiff of someone familiar that it cracks. Stiles. (it's in no way a crossover, but elements were definitely borrowed from Tokyo Ghoul, so there's that. sorry if i spoiled anything, but i needed some sort of disclaimer)


**A/N: HEEEY, so I figured since it's safe to assume I won't actually finish many of my stories, what's stopping me from uploading all my unfinished fanfictions? I had been waiting at first because they were unfinished, but if I really don't see an ending in the foreseeable future, why not just upload them? SO HERE I AM WITH ANOTHER PLOT BUNNY. The inspiration drawn is explained in the summary. You might see more plot bunnies that are unfinished popping up from me as well. Hope you enjoy. ;)**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously.**

 **WARNINGS: Rated T for dark themes, language and gore. In fact, maybe I should rate it M... If you think so, don't hesitate to tell me. XD**

000

Stiles was acting weird.

Not scatterbrained, talking too fast, up at odd hours kind of weird. Well, not any more than usual. But something else, nagging at the back of Scott's mind, something obvious yet not. Like when you think you see something in your peripheral but when you look, it's gone.

The thing is, the thing that makes worry pool deep in Scott's stomach, Stiles won't spill. He'd been growing distant, Scott knew it, but he couldn't pinpoint the reason why. But when his yet-again invitation to hang out or sleep over was declined, he figured he should investigate. Stiles is Stiles, and he never admits when something is wrong unless absolutely necessary. So Scott can trust him to say something if it was really that bad... right?

It won't hurt to make sure.

And that's why he's in the middle of the woods at midnight trailing far behind his best friend. Story of their lives, it would seem.

Scott recognizes this area, even if he's accustomed to seeing it from several hundred feet above. They should be close to the bottom of the cliff that overlooks Beacon Hills. The trees grow thinner, allowing bands of moonlight to widen and catch in his eyes, reflecting like polished coins in the dark. The wind carries Stiles' strange scent, and something else that makes Scott's steps falter and body crane to check his blind spots.

Blood. He's sure of it. But the scent falls through his grasp, disappearing just as quickly as it came.

Muscles taught and adrenaline simmering, he faces forward, breath catching in his throat when only rustling branches and slithering shadows lie ahead in place of where his friend used to be. Heart thumping too loud in his ears, he picks up his pace, following the trail of familiar and strange that Stiles had left behind.

The trees get even thinner, moonlight visibly bouncing off of the cliff-face in a wall of white. He's just starting to jog when cold hands grab him from behind and yank him into a tangle of trees, iron fingers clamped hard over his mouth. Red flashes as his wolf leaps forward, but the harsh whispers in his ear makes him stop.

"Sh-sh! It's just me."

Stiles. Scott relaxes a little, reaching up to remove the hand from his face.

"You have to be quiet."

Confused, he straightens but does as he's told, slowly twisting out of his friend's hold. The first thing he sees is Stiles pressing a finger to his lips, mouthing another 'sh' as if Scott didn't get it the first time.

Sh? That's all he has to say after lurking around the woods in the middle of the night for no apparent reason? Thoughts tumble through Scott's mind, anxiety encompassing him as he tries to read his best friend's expression. Was he hiding something? Or was he in trouble? What if he couldn't say anything? What if somebody threatened his dad if he told anyone? What if-

Twigs snap.

Both boys stiffen at the sound, eyes meeting. Scott can just barely hear their breaths— _inhale, exhale—_ the wind catching on leaves muffling any other sound that might've shattered their silence. Eyes flashing red, he focuses his hearing and finds boots—leather—breaking grass blades and easing over dirt, pacing light and careful, intentionally quiet, breaths shallow even while their hearts race. Two, three, four pairs of footsteps. Three male, one female, or maybe just a younger man.

A hint of lipstick, musty but floral. Female, then? The scent of dogs—one German shepherd, one bloodhound—linger with one of the men, while a thick metallic smell seems to slather the entire group. Bullets or freshly-sharpened blades.

Another scent, tangy like the metal smell, but thicker, more potent. Iron.

But it can't be blood... It's too strong; someone—multiple someones—would have to be drained completely for that kind of potency.

A strangled choke breaks Scott from his trance, gaze whipping to Stiles who now looks stricken, eyes squeezed shut, breath visibly puffing from his nose in small spurts.

"Stiles?" he tries, keeping his voice low. But Stiles doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. Something heavy starts to form in Scott's gut.

The footsteps are getting closer, the combined smells of metal and makeup and canine mingling with oxygen and making the back of his throat itch. It has to be blood, but what are these people doing carrying nearly 3 gallons of fresh blood around? It can't just be their own blood, pumping throughout their bodies. It's too strong.

A low grunt, almost a growl, pulls his gaze once again to his friend, his brows furrowing in concern. Stiles looks pale, sweat dripping down the side of his face, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

" _Stiles?_ " Again, nothing.

Pursing his lips, Scott reaches out and lays a tentative hand on Stiles' shoulder.

Bad.

Bad, _bad_ idea.

The moment Scott's fingers make contact with his body, Stiles jolts as if struck by lightning, eyes popping open, the left lid revealing black like tar encircling an orb of red, tendrils like veins reaching for his skin and crawling out and around his eye. Scott recoils just as a feral scream shakes the air, piercing to his core and chilling him to the bone.

 _Stiles._

The teen sprints from their hiding spot in a blink, movements focused, precise.

And without a second thought, Scott follows.

Just as predicted, a team of four are waiting only a few yards away, one woman with hair that blends into the night, three men, two with large firearms in their grips, one with a gleaming machete. They all have backpacks, Scott's red eyes focusing in on the strain of their shoulders, the weight of the bag pulling at their clothes, the too-strong smell of iron emanating from their backs. _They_ are _carrying blood._

And just like that, Stiles is gunning straight for them. Well, not _straight._ He zig-zags, dodging the gunfire that rips the dirt apart and prompts Scott to duck behind a tree.

" _Stiles!_ "

An animalistic growl that sounds nothing like Stiles rips through the night, a sick squelching sound following at its heels. A scream—a very human scream—makes Scott's heart stutter, his limbs freeze.

" _Vincent!_ " It's the woman's voice, to which a gargling shriek responds, then the crack of bone.

Blinking, Scott gathers himself with a deep breath, eyes flashing red. The green of the leaves flash brighter, silver beams turning to highlights like gemstones winking at him, the grass swimming like the ocean in the wind. Time slows and the scents of the forest and blood take over his senses, the sound of flesh tearing and bone splintering ringing in his ears. A beat, a breath. Then he dashes out of his cover, making a beeline for Stiles.

Three of the four are scrambling around, guns missing, machete sticking out of a branch far above. Tears glisten on the woman's face. Blood is smeared on her sleeve.

The sight of Stiles hunched over the fourth figure, red painting a mask over his features, down his neck, soaking his shirt, flesh littered across his cheek, eyes dark and crazed, is enough to make Scott's heart race and his limbs work faster, refusing to let his mind stall. Their eyes meet just before Scott hits him like a freight train, tackling him away from the group of humans and further into the forest. They tumble and roll, coming to stop in the brush in a tangle of limbs. Desperate breaths that sound more like the voice of a beast has Scott hurrying to straddle his friend, the strength of his wolf bearing down on him.

"Stiles, stop!" he shouts past his fangs, pressing harder when the body beneath him thrashes. An inhuman gasp gurgles from Stiles' lips, jaws open and snapping in the direction of the carnage behind. Scott's eyes sting.

Stomach doing flips, Scott lets up only just and then slams back down with renewed force, eyes brightening. And then he roars, power surging just below his lungs. Stiles stills, going ramrod straight, his sightless eyes finally coming into focus.

" _S-Scott?_ "

The voice is foreign, low, guttural, but blessedly more familiar. Scott nearly sags in relief, the air seeping out of his lungs.

"Are you with me?"

 _Bang!_

The sound makes him flinch, pain searing through his shoulder. Blood gushes from his wound and Stiles grunts, but Scott's vision is hazy with light. Something with strength that rivals his own drags him up and forward even while his legs struggle to keep up. The keening in his ears fades with the white, fallen leaves and grass underfoot appearing in his line of sight.

"Stiles?"

No answer, but he's still being dragged onward, cold hands locked around him like vices. Then, "I don't think the bullet was laced with anything." Stiles says 'anything', but Scott knows he means wolfsbane. The statement is a comfort though, helping Scott regain his footing.

But the wolf and his adrenaline are fading, revealing a weight pressing on his chest and behind his eyes, flashes of blood and flesh and bone running through pale fingers— _Stiles'_ fingers.

"Holy shit..." he pants, keeping his eyes trained on the ground in front of him and not on the person he thought he knew.

000

 _Something was in his woods._

 _Sure, he didn't live there anymore, but that didn't mean they still weren't his. He made it a point to visit several times a week unless the latest monster of Beacon Hills kept him from it. Tonight was not one of those nights. At least, that's what he thought._

 _The smell of too much blood leads him away from his old home, through a dry creek-bed, through a full creek-bed, up a far-too steep incline that he definitely wouldn't have been able to climb without his claws, and closer to the backyard part of the woods that most of the neighborhoods around shared. The odor is potent and fresh, warm, but he's used to the smell of blood and so remains his carefully crafted mask of indifference. It's only when he catches a whiff of someone familiar that it cracks._

 _Stiles._

 _That's too much blood spilled for someone to still be alive. Panic itches beneath his ribcage._

 _He picks up his pace, distractedly jogging, gaze covering the dark horizon. Squelching sounds prick his eardrums. Iron fills his nostrils, gristle crunching in his ears. He smells bone marrow. A flash of spiked hair, a red hoodie._

" _Stiles!" he practically barks, canines sharpening._

 _The head of dark hair snaps up like a bowstring released, craning as far around as possible to meet his gaze. One orb of glazed cinnamon, dull but still familiar... the second is replaced by a pinprick of ruby, encircled by obsidian, glittering in the dark and locking on him._

 _The thing that looks like Stiles shudders, suddenly convulsing, thick red pouring from his throat, bits of pale flesh mingled with blood. A choked word catches the wind, but Derek can't make it out. The gagging continues until the teen is quaking, stumbling away from the pile of vomit and carnage, blinking the pitch out of his eye._

" _Oh God..." he says, voice small and barely audible, unsteady legs unfolding to stand. And then Derek actually_ looks.

 _A person. Or what's left of one, anyway. Chunks of long brunette hair mingle with the grass, blood soaking the earth, flesh littered about. Bones slick with fat and blood glisten in the moonlight. The overwhelming smell once again hits Derek's nose full-force._

 _He stares at the scene, almost entranced, unable to match the easy grin and messy hair and ridiculous jokes and flimsy arms and everything_ Stiles _with the carnage in front of him. He_ can't.

" _Derek..."_

 _The pitiful croak snags his attention, tugging his gaze toward the source who's leaning against a tree trunk for support, skin sheet-white against spatters of crimson._

What happened?

 _Mind working for him, he strides forward on autopilot, grabbing Stiles by the arm and dragging him away—away from the smell._

" _There were two others here, right? Mostly likely they already called the police, so you need to get out of here. Go home, get cleaned up, stay out of sight. Don't—I repeat,_ don't _—do_ anything _to draw attention to yourself. Stay in your room, go to sleep, anything. Just don't do something stupid."_

" _Derek—what are you-" The klutz's foot catches on a root, but Derek yanks him up and doesn't falter, blue eyes flashing, watching for the nearest road that he knows should be up ahead._

" _Do you understand?" he asks, because he needs to know Stiles is_ listening.

 _The uncoordinated breaths quicken and grow ragged, stealing Derek's attention for a brief moment. He comes to a halt, vaguely acknowledging the asphalt just a few paces away._

" _Stiles." He waits for the blessedly_ normal _and wholly familiar eyes to focus, finding his gaze and grabbing hold of it. "Do you understand?"_

 _A beat, then a shaky nod. Derek responds with a terse nod of his own, only giving Stiles a second before shoving him toward the street in the direction he knows will eventually find the Stilinski household... if Stiles is coherent enough to find his way around..._

 _Luckily, he doesn't faceplant, so that's a good sign. The teen gives him one backward glance before stumbling away, hands still trembling._

Okay... Okay.

 _He hopes the flames had enough time to grow by the time the police arrive, having piled dry leaves over the carnage and coerced the flame from his lighter to life. It took some encouragement, but the fire was spreading by the time he left, heightened hearing picking up on the police car wheels screeching to a halt about two miles out, multiple pairs of footsteps clambering in his direction. He can't have them finding any trace of Stiles among the gore._

 _It's been approximately half an hour since he last saw Stiles when the teen's house comes into view. The lights are on, and while he can detect hints of fear and various foods recently touched, any scent of Stiles' father is at least forty-five minutes old, so he decides to enter through the front door as opposed to the usual upstairs window._

 _A wall of orange juice and fast food assaults his nose as soon as he gets the door open. Which is no surprise, seeing as the stuff is scattered all over the kitchen floor. He grimaces as he closes the door behind him, tentatively approaching the catastrophe that is the kitchen. The fridge is left open, half its contents strewn over the counters and tile. The distinct hint of acid alerts him to the vomit in the sink, no matter how much Stiles obviously tried to rinse it out._

 _Stifling a sigh, he sets out to find the mop and bucket. It's fairly easy to locate in the Stilinski's smaller-sized home and it takes less than ten minutes to clean up the entirety of the mess. Once finished, he rinses out both the bucket and the mop, hurrying to to investigate the second floor. The lack of shower sounds tell him Stiles either hasn't gotten to it yet or has already finished cleaning himself up, so he ignores that section of the hallway in favor of heading straight for Stiles' room._

 _The smell of blood is gone. However, the musty air of fear remains._

 _Pausing, he gently knocks on the kid's door, something he thinks he's never actually done before. Though to be fair, Stiles hasn't deserved the courtesy of a knock until now, always getting on his nerves and antagonizing the hell outta him. But right now it's different._

 _Muffled footsteps and then the door cracks open, revealing pale features and hollow eyes. The dull gaze finds some sort of confirmation before blinking, the door opening wide to allow him in._

 _Derek expects a sight similar to that of the kitchen but is pleasantly surprised to find the quarters only as messy as usual. Various photographs litter the wall, strung together by threads of green and yellow and red and the occasional blue. It's scatterbrained and a mess, but a Stiles mess. Not like the kitchen._

 _A huff of breath and then the creak of a mattress shifting has Derek slowly turning to face Stiles, who is perched on his bed, a glazed and faraway look in his eyes. Derek takes a seat at Stiles' desk._

" _It healed."_

 _Derek blinks, confused._

" _The... The incision, from my surgery. It's healed. Not even a scar left... Like Scott."_

 _Like a werewolf._

 _Derek leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees, folding his hands together. "Stiles-"_

" _I killed someone." Those haunted eyes finally flick towards Derek, still shimmering but slightly more focused. "I murdered her. I-I..." The gray tone of Stiles' face washes a faint green. "I_ ate _her." The finality of that statement seems to set him off, his breaths growing short and fast, eyes squeezing shut. "What's happening to me? Why did I... My dad—God, Derek, my_ dad. _I smelled him before I left, I_ wanted _to... I could've..."_

" _Calm down," he says slowly, calm, scooting the wheeled desk chair an inch closer to the bed. "Your dad is fine."_

" _I-I can't eat. Everything, none of it... It all tastes like ash, like something died. I couldn't even..." Stiles' hands card through his hair and then slide down his face, coming to rest over his mouth. "God, I_ ate her. _I could smell her all the way from here and I just followed it. I swear, I didn't... It smelled so—so_ good, _and everything else—I would just throw it up, I couldn't keep it down. Only_ her... _"_

"Stiles. _Shut up and breathe."_

 _He knows he sounds like an asshole, but frankly, he doesn't give a shit. And it works too, Stiles' shoulders trembling once before going still, rising and deflating with deep breaths, fingertips digging into his eye sockets._

" _I-I can't..." The next exhale tapers off into a shudder, Stiles' fingers shaking against his face. Derek can hear his heartrate spike, smell the anxiety infiltrate the air as he pitches to the side, pressing his face into his pillow while holding his hand to his neck, presumably to check his pulse. "Shit..."_

 _Derek is out of his depth with this one and he knows it, but he moves to sit next to Stiles' bed anyway, staying there until Stiles' breaths even out, until his heart stops racing, until his limbs stop clenching and the horrible stench of anxiety dissipates._

000

"The _loft?_ Derek knows?" Try as he might, Scott can't keep the hint of betrayal from his voice. Stiles glances at him, face blank, and for a second, Scott thinks he will break the long-lasting silence that has stretched on for the past half hour or so. But then Stiles looks away, stalking towards the door.

The building is eerily quiet save the pitter-patter of raindrops tickling the roof, tapping against Scott's ears and bunching the muscles along his shoulders. He doesn't know what to do. He can't remove the image of blood and bone, of Stiles' eyes, crazed and dull, his thrashing, his animalistic craving to... to _eat someone._ It makes his blood run cold, his skin prickle with cold fear. Not fear of Stiles, he hopes. But fear _for_ Stiles. What happened to him?

"Stiles."

Derek stands with his arms crossed, leaning on the door with such an unfazed expression despite all the blood slathering Stiles' clothes that Scott can't help feeling like this is just some stupid dream or horrific prank and now Derek will treat Stiles like he always does and Scott will be able to relax, feel normal, know that everything is okay and _Stiles_ is still... Stiles.

"He knows."

And all his ridiculous hopes fall flat, the unspoken meaning behind Stiles' words registering even to Scott's oblivious mind. A strange look crosses Derek's face, but he only nods, turning to saunter over to the couch, sinking low into the cushions. His clear gaze grabs a hold of Scott, watching almost expectantly. Scott feels his energy drain.

"What's going on?" he manages, stumbling over to a nearby stool and seating himself on it, thankful for the small sense of stability. The air feels cool and musty, the dust on the stairs making his nose itch, the chill of the floor seeping through his shoes and making him shiver.

Derek's eyes narrow and his head tilts to the side, so reminiscent of a dog that Scott would have smiled under different circumstances. His eyes land on Stiles, who leans against the wall, sinking slowly to the floor. A question stirs in his eyes.

"Hunters. They brought blood—lots of it; I guess it set me off..." Stiles mutters, examining the stains covering his arms.

" _Hunters?_ How did you know they were hunters?"

Stiles doesn't meet Derek's eyes, continuing to stare at his skin as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...Because they've been after me for a while."

Derek's eyebrows jump. "And when were you planning on telling me about this?"

"I didn't think I had to. I was just going to avoid them, try to lie low, but they must have been following me."

" _You didn't think you had to?_ Dammit, Stiles, you can't just run around handling this by yourself! You don't know how."

"Really? Because last I checked, neither of us have any fucking clue what's happening or what to do about it!"

"Guys," Scott interjects, feeling completely leeched of his strength, just wishing he could fall asleep and wake up and have everything undo itself. "Please... just tell me what's going on."

000

" _You need to tell your dad."_

 _Stiles' head whips up at that, eyes wide and stirring fear in them. "No. No, I can't. I_ killed _someone; I can't just_ tell him _that."_

" _It's either that or you stay here because you have no excuse to leave and put your dad's life in danger due to your sudden craving for human flesh."_

 _It's harsh, but Derek knows Stiles needs to hear this. And until they know what's going on, Stiles can't be around other people. Werewolves must not be a problem, so he assumes neither would werecoyotes or kitsunes, but humans are a confirmed_ no. _And that means Stiles can't be around his dad._

 _The kid's face falls, gaze searching the carpet as if a solution will just appear out of the floor. As it is, the floor yields nothing but scattered junk._

" _He's out there now... He's probably seen the... the body." A shallow breath. "How am I supposed to tell him_ I _did that?"_

" _By acknowledging you had no control over yourself... And that your dad will understand that."_

000

"A _what?_ "

"A ghoul. At least, that's our best guess." Stiles rubs his forehead nervously, grimacing when all he does it smear blood over it.

"Your best guess?" Face pale, Scott lets out a breath, glancing around the room before staring back at Stiles. "When did this even happen?"

A twinging ache has taken residence in his brain and his bullet wound is still vying for his attention even though it's healing, the sensation of his flesh melding itself together still a foreign one, so he gives himself a moment to breathe before responding. He can still _taste him._

"Since the accident," he spurts, shoving the distracting thoughts away with a shake of his head. "Or more specifically... We're thinking since my surgery." His stomach _aches._

At Scott's blank expression save his eyebrows climbing higher, Stiles sighs, closing his eyes briefly while leaning his head against the wall. "We... We think that maybe some other ghoul was the organ donor."

"So... you have ghoul organs?"

"Yes," says the Sourwolf, and Stiles mentally thanks him for picking up the conversation for him.

"...So, what? Now he... he's a ghoul? What does that mean?" The heightened sense of panic surrounding Scott isn't helping, in fact it makes his head throb even more, his stomach feeling as though it's caving in on itself.

"That's the thing." He can feel Derek's eyes on him. "He might be... half-ghoul."

" _Half-ghoul?_ "

Silence, blessed freaking silence follows, cool like balm to his mind even while the muscles around his torso continue to scream.

"His eyes. Only one of them was different," Scott's voice rings. Good, good. He's getting it.

"According to most lore, humans can be turned through a bite like the majority of other supernatural creatures... But here and there, organ transplants are mentioned as a very feasible although unconventional method."

 _Blood means flesh. Flesh, shredded beneath his fingernails, flesh between his teeth, flesh filling his mouth, sliding down his throat, blood, bone, muscle, fat, flesh—_

"Dammit, Stiles, get out of that."

 _Their screams are vivid like technicolor to his ears. Their smells, intoxicating like steam wafting into his nostrils, the pain ebbing away to bliss, like fire and ice in his veins but brighter, better, more powerful, like electricity surging through a lightbulb, threatening to burst—_

Knuckles— _bone—_ slam into his cheek, shoving him flat on his side, the shade of his eyelids pulling back to reveal spinning wood. Someone is yelling past the high-pitched whining in his ears. His head feels like one giant bruise, throbbing, a hot knife tracing his skull, pushing sparks into his veins. Pain low in his chest vibrates up his throat and through his lips, doing nothing to calm the swiveling world around him.

"Stiles." A hand on his shoulder. "When was the last time you ate?" Another pair of softer, gentler hands help him sit upright, stilling the swirling colors to actual shapes. He blinks until the silhouettes sharpen to faces creased in concern.

"Uh..." His mouth feels all dry and cottony. The pain in his stomach is buzzing like a living, breathing thing, alive and swarming, tingling like fingernails tapping feather-light against his insides. "Three days. Three days is as far as I can go before it gets... bad." He hopes he actually said that out loud. It doesn't feel like he's talking, though. His lips feel strange and warm and fuzzy and not there, but hopefully they're following his brain's commands anyway.

"Damn." Derek, always there to respond appropriately to the situation. He smiles despite himself.

"Stiles, you with us?"

"Yeah, I'm-" not fine, not fine, _not fine, hungry, I'm hungry, I'm so fucking hungry, I can't—_

The writhing thing in his stomach roars, lurching him forward, seizing his mind with taloned hands, digging deep until it's all he feels, cold and hot and soft and ridged, carving out his brain from his skull.

Something hard connects with his body and steals the air from his lungs, leaving him gaping like a fish.

"We need to move him."

Rough hands grab at him, peeling away his warmth. He starts, arms swinging out and connecting with someone's hand.

"Stiles, hold still. We're just trying to help."

 _Scott._

"Scott. Scott, don't let me get my dad. Don't let me. Please, do anything you have to. Just don't let me do anything."

"I will, Stiles. Just calm down, okay?"

"Okay." _Just calm down. Don't let it win._

 _Don't let it win._

000

 **A/N: Aaaand that's it. :3 Hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to leave a review if you have anything you want to share. Love you guys so much. I apologize for leaving you hanging all the time... But I also don't want to force any story. I doesn't feel as engaging to me then. So if that leaves me with unfinished projects... I guess that's what I've got until inspiration flows. -sighs-**


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